The rains are here

The rains are here.
The smell of wet dust is in the air, permeating the house. It is not
unpleasant.
The winds are here
And the dust storms.
Did I ever think Arabia capable of monsoons?

The winter here is its own kind of spring. The true colors of buildings
begin to emerge, especially the vivid tiles of the domed mosques, from
their thick dusty brown crusts. It looks a little more like Easter every
day, as many of the domes are egg-shaped rather than the half-spheres of
Palestine. In the meantime, we can be blown off the roof in a damp wind
if we are not careful. Since we are along the Tigris, the wind is
stronger. I have high hopes that it will sweep away the mosquitoes as
well, which are beginning to spawn in earnest in the moist air.

Most of our friends and neighbors are dressed in winter jackets over
sweaters over thick shirts. They look at us as if we are crazy. We are
still in shirtsleeves by day, but some of us are pulling out sweaters and
blankets at night. The temps are probably in the high 60’s now.

I apologize for not having written for so long. It’s been quite
overwhelming here—both in terms of how busy we are and the emotional toll
of witnessing the suffering of Iraqi people under both the old
dictatorship and the new. I say that because everyone here knows who is
really in charge. As a firm believer in nonviolence, I never want to say
that violenceBut after this month of blood and the sudden promises of
Iraqi independence by June, I am not so sure.

Life these days is punctuated with helicopters, tanks, Humvees, and car
bombs and explosions. All of us here are a little jumpy at the slam of a
car door outside. Several weeks ago now, Humvees came down our street and
fully-armored soldiers went door to door registering all the people in the
houses. They came to our building also, and were shocked to see
foreigners living outside a heavily guarded compound, among the people.
They wanted to know how many people lived in our building, and especially
how many foreigners were inside. They registered our building on their
GPS device, and went on down the street. Our neighbors realized then that
we, too, could be harrassed. The military then began regular ‘patrols’ of
our street several times during the day or night. In addition, we noticed
several helicopter patrols hovering low over our building at different
times of day. Since fraternization or association with the US military is
grounds for militant groups targeting NGOs—the UN and Red Cross already
suffering heavily for this—we were feeling less than grateful for their
‘security’ presence. In addition to certainly feeling no more secure with
these tanks ‘patrolling’ down our street at two in the morning and waking
all the neighbors, we certainly were feeling no more rested at night.

I am finally, two months into my stay in postwar Iraq, getting to feel as
though this is a regular team. Everyone is up to speed and pulling
together. I am delighted to be free of the role of team coordinator.
Trying to keep everything moving at the same time as training four new
team members and learning a new environment and trying to referee a
particularly difficult team conflict had completely worn me out. Uff-da!
I dumped the role off on Cliff the second he walked in the door. I’ll
have to pick it up again while he leads the delegation, but that will be
alright for just ten days. In the meantime, I’m working to coordinate our
growing ‘Campaign for Justice for Iraqi Detainees.’ I will send the
releases to you all shortly. This will keep me (and the whole team!) more
than busy, I think, until I head over to Palestine for Christmas and back
home for January. My only regret is that our team should really be
stirring things up on a daily basis here just at the time that I have to
leave here.

I’ve made a few friends here beyond all the families we work with who have
relatives in the US prison camps. One is Katrina, a woman who began
approaching us on the sidewalks saying, “Lisa, Lisa,” She was friends
with Lisa from our team who was here over the summer. She and several
other families are squatting in an unfinished shopping center. Katrina
and her young son live in a small shop and keep most of their belongings
under a set of stairs. She is a widow, and her older children are away
and married. Fortunately, there is a small bathroom in the shop which
provides water for cooking, though some days when the water goes out, they
get it from a tap out on the street. When there is electricity, they cook
on a small electric-coil hot plate. Both times I’ve been in her home so
far, she has made me eat. She also takes pride in sending me home with
small gifts tucked in my purse or pockets—gum, candy, a bar of soap. Last
time she gave me a t-shirt. She even painted my nails. The currency of
friendship in Iraq is the exchange of small gifts, often in slightly
sacrificial acts. Katrina is Chaldean Christian. She looks quite
Kurdish, but I won’t say that to her. Ethnic tensions are running high,
and the Chaldeans don’t want to be associated with either the Kurds or the
Iraqi Arabs. Katrina is the boss around the shopping center, and proudly
has all the men wrapped around her finger. She’s hollered at each of
them until they came in and introduced themselves properly or done her
some favor (I especially enjoyed seeing the man who opened her tiny can of
tomato sauce with a large knife. She rewarded him with a box of matches
so he could light his cigarettes.) She has an unconquerable spirit and
zest for life.

Mariam is an Assyrian Christian woman with a four-year-old daughter and a
baby. She lives at the end of our street in a third-floor apartment. When
I first visited her, she had MTV on in the background, where an American
woman was pole-dancing in skimpy underthings. We were both trying to
ignore it without much success. Finally, after much other small talk, she
asked me if all American women dressed like that and acted like that. I
said no, only a very few do that or dress like that. She accepted this
and then said, “It is not flattering and it is not beautiful.” Over the
past three years I have come to learn that 90% of the known world has seen
Baywatch, and this is their primary cultural encounter with Americans.

I am writing so much here and sending so little. I have started three
letters explaining some of the issues here and they are still waiting to
be completed. In the meantime, I'll continue to send the reports I've
been writing for the project. In some ways, there's really no more to
say.

It is my day off once again, and I find that days off are often days where
my body decides it's okay to be ill. Fortunately, I did get to sleep in
today. Now I'll return home to try finishing those letters, write an
article, and try to stay sane while things go boom and helicopters fall
out of the air.

peace,

Le Anne